"Father, don't make me throw them in the pond! Tell me why it is wrong for me to have them; please, father, tell me!"
The old gentleman's face expressed both resolution and kindness.
"Listen, Georg. When I gave you those toys at Christmas time, I expected you to amuse yourself with them as other children do, in turn with balls, kites, and sleds. But this you have failed to do, and every play-hour since that time you have given to these musical toys. Now, Georg, I mean to give you a thorough education, so that when you are a man you may become a jurist, capable of following a respectable career and earning a snug fortune. Ever since you were born I have planned and saved for this purpose, and I cannot have my arrangements upset by these silly mouth organs. Tut, tut!" as the boy endeavored to speak, "no words, my son, over this matter! If I allow you to keep these things and play with them, day in and day out, as you have been doing, you will grow into a musician, and then where will my jurist be? No, no, it is not to be thought of. When I came in to-day, you were so deep in the Duke's March that you did not know that I was near. No, boy, you cannot have them any longer. I would have taken them away before, had I realized that you were so set upon them."
"Please, father—" whispered Georg, quaking, but persistent.
"You must either throw them away or give them away to-day. You shall have an hour to decide which you wish to do, and at the end of it, I shall expect the matter to be settled for all time. Also, Georg, I wish you to see no more of four of those children who were here to-day. Frieda and Peter seemed dull enough, but the others were too musical by far to be fit companions for you. You may tell them that I forbid them the house from to-day."
At this stroke of fate, Georg threw himself at full length on the floor, sobbing tempestuously. His father departed without further parley, and the boy was left alone to battle with his disappointment.
As the hour drew to a close, he mastered his emotion as well as he was able, washed from his face the traces of weeping, and hurried out to call a meeting of his orchestra by the pond-side.
He would not confess to his mates that he was grieved with the message he had for them, but delivered it with an air of mannish bravado.